Understanding
by KatieBell70
Summary: Mixed signals, missed chances. Hermione Granger feels as if she has spent half her life waiting to come to an understanding with Ron Weasley. Somehow, though, in all that time she never truly understood him. Could an unexpected gift change all that?


_**Understanding**_

Hermione Granger sat under her favourite tree in the back garden, the very best spot for a perfect view of the Burrow in all its ramshackle, homey glory. Sitting unread on the grass beside her was a well-worn copy of _Mansfield Park_—a great book, certainly, but an unsatisfying substitute for the one she really wanted.

She lay back on a blanket, breathing in deeply the scent of the grass around her, trying to relax, trying to keep her mind off a certain overgrown, immature, irritating-as-hell, redheaded prat.

Just as her mind began to drift off into what was most certainly _not_ a fantasy about the very same ginger-haired idiot (his lips on her neck, his large hands covering her breasts, his pelvis crushing hers into the blanket, resulting in a dull ache…) she opened her eyes to discover an impossibly tall frame standing over her, completely stealing her sunlight. The face looking down at her was friendly yet concerned, wearing that stupid irritating lopsided smile and framed by that ridiculous hair, which picked up the light of the sun behind him and made him look like an angel.

"You all right, then?" he asked, and she sat up, terrified he would be able to tell what she had been thinking about just by looking into her eyes.

"Fine," she snapped, and immediately wished she had sounded less annoyed, more cool and unaffected. "What do you want, Ron?"

His smile didn't falter. "Heard you were looking for _this_," he said, handing her another well-worn paperback novel, which looked a little worse for the wear since the last time she'd seen it.

She grabbed it from him. "Where did you find it?"

He hesitated. "I—er—I borrowed it, actually. Didn't think you'd miss it after only a couple of days, but come to think of it, I reckon I'm not all that surprised."

"You…borrowed it?" she asked. "Whatever on earth did you borrow it for?"

"To read it—what else?"

"You read it?" she asked, unable to wrap her mind around the idea of Ron Weasley reading classic literature. "On _purpose_?"

Ron seemed a little offended at this. "I _do_ read, Hermione."

"Not if you're not forced to," she pointed out.

He scowled. "Well, you did chuck it at me, didn't you? I thought maybe you were trying to send me a message with it."

Hermione laughed wryly. "I _was_, actually, but it wasn't that I wanted you to read the book."

"Anyway, you've been reading it for years, haven't you? I thought maybe if I read it…I might figure you out a bit." He glanced down at her knees, which were peeking out from under her summer skirt.

Hermione was absolutely gobsmacked. She clutched the book closer to her chest, hugging it protectively.

Ron spoke again. "Well, it was either that or _Hogwarts, A History_, and since you didn't chuck that one at me, thank god…"

Hermione laughed in spite of her irritation and confusion. "So, what did you think?"

"What did I think of what?"

"Of the book, of course!"

"Oh—to be honest, I didn't really like it," he admitted.

Hermione's eyes narrowed. "Not enough Quidditch, I suppose?"

"Well, yeah, _that_, but-"

"What?" she asked, her voice beginning to rise in exasperation.

"Well, to be honest, I was a bit surprised. I didn't expect it to be like that. It was sort of—I dunno—like those books that er, Lavender and Parvati used to share, you know, with the girl on the cover with her blouse half torn off, and the bloke with no shirt at all?"

Hermione was beginning to see red. "You think it was a _romance novel_? For your information, Ronald Weasley, it is one of the greatest works of literature!"

Ron stopped her before she could really get a good rant in. "Well, in Lavender's books, at least the couple ended up together—you know—'happily ever after' and all that shite. In this book, even though the words were nicer and all, I mean—they were miserable, weren't they? And we're supposed to be happy that their ghosts are still walking the moors together, when if they'd only…"

"If they'd only what, Ron?" she asked.

"Well, they never really talked—did they? I mean, they talked, but they never actually told each other how they felt, or made any real plans…I mean, if he'd just _said_ something, asked her not to marry that tosser, maybe she would have listened. Instead, he just overreacted and ran away. Then he went and got so angry that he did his level best to ruin everyone's lives, didn't he? And the _girl_—if she'd just been patient and had faith in him, he would've taken care of both of them."

Ignoring Hermione's snort of irritation, he continued. "It was just—I dunno—a waste of two lives, wasn't it? Just because they were too stubborn and shortsighted."

Hermione shook her head in disbelief.

"What is it?" he finally asked.

"You haven't figured out why I like this book, have you?"

"No, actually," he replied. "It's a bit depressing, if you ask me."

Hermione stood up angrily, still clutching the book. She began to walk away, leaving him staring after her with his mouth open.

It wouldn't do, though—she couldn't keep silent. She turned around and said haughtily, "Far _less_ depressing than real life, in my opinion. And for your information, Ronald Weasley, you've _completely_ missed the point!" She resumed her exit, but was unable to resist one final jab. "AS USUAL!"

She realised, later, that she might have overreacted. Certainly, she ought to have been flattered that he had read a difficult novel purely in an attempt to understand her better. Still, his actions the week before (which had indirectly resulted in her throwing a beloved book at his head) illustrated his complete lack of understanding of her feelings. The most frustrating thing about it was that after all this time and so many close calls, they were still nowhere near the place she'd been yearning to get to since she'd been thirteen. He just didn't have a clue, did he?

And because of his blundering, what should have been a precious, sunlit idyll before a dangerous quest—full of fun and affection and lazy exploration—had turned into an endless source of discomfort for themselves and those around them.

She'd been willing to take a bit of the blame in the past, but this one was entirely his fault. He had completely ruined their first kiss—a kiss she'd been dreaming about for years, a kiss that ought to have been special, romantic, and above all, _private_. Instead, he had kissed her in front of his entire family and dozens of guests, merely as a reaction to his jealousy of _Viktor Sodding Krum_.

Viktor—who was so polite, so correct, so respectful of Ron as one of his hosts, knowing full well how Hermione felt about her best friend due to extensive correspondence on the subject.

But _no_, Ron had to go and drag her away from him, kissing her in the midst of the crowd, essentially marking her as his property in the most public place possible. _He ought to have been a bloody cave man_, she thought.

He had taken what should have been special and beautiful and entirely about the two of them and made it about something else altogether: Viktor Krum and Ron's irrational jealousy of him.

Hermione was not ready to forgive him (_hardly_) and she was certainly not going to kiss him again, let alone do anything else.

And she had so wanted this last bit of summer to be special. How vividly she had imagined it as she'd spent her allotted week with her parents. On the train ride home from Hogwarts she had been so certain that they had come to an understanding and that they would just sort of ease into a relationship. She had pictured lingering gazes over dinner, long walks in the garden, hours spent under a tree by the lake, exploring each other, finally, _finally_ coming together completely, ending long years of yearning.

Instead, he had wasted all this precious time with his thoughtless actions, hadn't he? And yet he _still_ didn't understand what she needed from him.

o

A day later, during which she grew more and more irritated, he came upon her again in one of her silent musings. In his hands, he carried a box, the contents of which seemed to tinkle together like a case of beer bottles. He set the box aside and sat down next to her.

It took a while for him to start speaking, and when he did, it sounded somewhat rehearsed. "Listen, Hermione—I've been thinking. I've been thinking about us, and I've been thinking about that bloody book, and—I reckon I don't want to be in the same place twenty years from now, wondering where I went wrong with you. I've buggered things up often enough, I know, but _you've_ never made it easy for me; you never gave me a hint or any sign of encouragement—you've been harder to figure out than Golpalott's Third Law, if you want to know the truth."

He paused, but Hermione didn't think he wanted her to jump in.

"The thing is, though," he continued. "I've always assumed that you had me pretty well figured out—I honestly didn't think it was that hard—but I'm beginning to suspect that I should have talked to you about how I was feeling a long time ago. The trouble is—I'm rubbish at it—or at least coming up with the right words."

He sighed and went on. "So, I thought, maybe—maybe this—_these_ could make it clear."

Carefully, he reached for the box and handed it to her. "So, yeah, I talked to Harry, and he said that you could use Dumbledore's old Pensieve for this. It's in our room. I'll make certain that nobody bothers you for a while."

Hermione didn't know what to think, let alone how to respond. He saved her the trouble by saying, "Yeah, anyway, I reckon I'll talk to you later, then, Hermione."

Ron stood up and walked away; hands in his pockets, shoulders slumped. Her eyes followed him until he disappeared from sight. After a while, she took another look at the box and picked up one of the tiny, mismatched bottles. _Ron's memories_, she assumed, and held it cradled in her hand, pressed against her heart.

_Why would he do such a thing?_ she thought. _What on earth is he going to show me? _

She was a little nervous about using a Pensieve, for she'd never had the opportunity before. Naturally, however, she had read all about them when Harry first mentioned the subject, and Hermione felt certain that she would be up to the challenge.

Hermione met no one on her journey back into the house and up the stairs. Mrs. Weasley was on a short visit to Mrs. Diggory's house, Mr. Weasley was at work, and Harry and Ginny were on brooms in the clearing, though it was entirely possible that they were more pleasantly occupied at the moment.

Being alone in Ron's room was an unexpected bonus, and she scanned it eagerly, never having had the opportunity to do so before. It was slightly less messy than normal and she wondered if he had cleaned it up in anticipation of her visit. The Pensieve sat on the bedside table, catching the glow of the afternoon sunlight pouring through the window and sending the lights on its surface dancing across Ron's slanted ceiling. It reminded her of the disco ball that had floated above the dance floor of her cousin's wedding, making the room and the crowd seem almost magical to her six-year-old self. This magic was _real_, however, and the Pensieve seemed to beckon her closer in spite of the fact that she felt somewhat nauseated, her stomach roiling from a combination of nerves and anticipation.

She decided to sit down, and had a moment of silly panic trying to decide whether she should sit on Harry's or Ron's bed as she made her journey of discovery. Predictably, she chose Ron's, setting the box onto the mattress next to her thigh.

Once again, she took a look at the bottles, wondering which one to choose first.

Logically, she thought, she ought to choose them in the order in which they had been placed in the box. After scolding herself for procrastinating, she chose a bright blue bottle from the top left corner, one that gave off a slight odor of orange peel.

With shaking hands, she pulled out the stopper and poured it into the Pensieve, stirring it in with her wand. Floating on the silvery surface, she discovered an image of Ron's face, and he couldn't have been more than twelve years old. She cautiously lowered her own face to the swirling almost-liquid and found herself staring down into the Gryffindor common room. Intrigued, she jumped all the way in, finding it almost completely deserted. Ron was there, however, and was in the process of putting on Harry's Invisibility Cloak. Immediately afterward, he stepped through the portrait hole. Hermione hesitated for a moment and followed him, resisting the urge to scold him for going out into the halls when it was so obviously late at night.

She was unable to see him, which made following his trail a bit of a challenge, but she discovered that there seemed to be some sort of invisible cord between them, compelling her to head along a particular path, probably a result of the unique magic of the Pensieve.

She halted in front of a door, which opened up in front of her (obviously by Ron's hand) so she hurried to slip in behind him. Her destination, apparently, was the hospital wing. Ron took the Invisibility Cloak off once he was behind a screen, and when she looked at the bed in front of him, she was startled to find a much younger version of herself on the bed, lying unnaturally still. Ron sat on the edge of the bed, looking down at her Petrified form, touching her face gently, as though afraid her skin would crumble beneath his fingers.

He began to talk, so softly she had to strain to hear him.

"…Sodding Snape gave us a surprise quiz today. I think I did all right, but Neville completely blew it. Literally, actually."

He laughed nervously and removed his hand, scratching the back of his head.

"History of Magic has been awful without you—I'm completely lost. And I keep having those dreams where I'm back at Aragog's den. I really wish we hadn't done it for nothing. It would have been worth it if we could've figured out what happened to you."

He was silent for a few moments, looking around the makeshift hospital room and back at the girl lying on the bed. "We really miss you, Hermione, and not just because you help us with schoolwork; I dunno how we're going to figure out this whole 'heir' business without you."

He shook his head ruefully. "It should have been _me_ that got Petrified. I'm useless when it comes to this sort of thing."

Ron reached out to touch her hand, and he seemed to flinch at the stiffness of it. Wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, he stood up quickly. "I reckon I'd better get back. I'll try to come back soon, all right?"

Hermione followed him out the door, despairing over his slumped shoulders. She wanted to scold him for forgetting to put the Cloak back on but she also had an impulse to put a comforting arm around him. Logic told her, however, that he wouldn't be able to hear or feel anything. She was wiping tears out of her own eyes when she felt herself pulled up and out of the Pensieve.

It took a moment to get her bearings again, and she was tempted to take a few moments longer thinking over all she had seen and heard. On the other hand, though, she was burning with the desire to see more. In a million years, she never would have guessed that Ron had risked detention in order to visit her Petrified self, even though he was probably aware she couldn't have seen or heard a thing. The entire time was a blank to her.

_Well, not the entire time_, she thought. _Not anymore, anyway._

Again, she peered into the box, selecting the next bottle—a blood red, vaguely oriental-looking one that must have held perfume at one time. This time, when she put her face into the Pensieve, it was with no hesitation whatsoever.

She emerged in one of the dim corridors at number twelve, Grimmauld Place. Ron was walking in front of her, wearing faded flannel pyjamas. Hermione took full advantage of the opportunity to watch his backside as he walked, something she rarely got a chance to do in real life as she usually walked beside him. His slippers made a shuffling sound on the once-elegant floor runner.

He approached a somewhat familiar door, knocking briskly. When it opened, Hermione was so startled to see the moving, breathing version of herself sitting on the bed that she hardly heard Ron's conversation with Ginny, who stood at the door.

"Uh...yeah, so I wanted to ask Hermione if she had that letter ready to go yet. I thought I'd send Pig out before I went to sleep."

Ron actually sounded a little flustered, and Hermione noticed that his ears were scarlet. She saw nothing to be embarrassed about, but found that Ron's eyes kept darting to the Hermione on the bed, who was dashing off a last line on a letter (most likely to Harry, she deduced).

Suddenly the truth hit her. The Hermione on the bed was wearing neither robes nor a dressing gown nor jeans and a jumper, and it may very well have been the first time Ron had see her in so little. It wasn't as if she was wearing a string bikini—just her usual summer bedtime outfit of a camisole and soft cotton shorts. And no bra—which was obvious if one was looking (which Ron most certainly was).

The other Hermione jumped off the bed, folding up her letter, and to Hermione's horror, her breasts bounced rather noticeably with the movement. Ron seemed to suck in his breath as he watched her, and grabbed the letter from her hands with hardly a word of acknowledgement.

He walked—no, he practically _sprinted_—down the hall, not stopping until he'd reached his room, where he leaned against the closed door and groaned audibly. He seemed crimson from the neck up as he walked over to Pig's cage and let him out, ruffling his feathers affectionately.

After tying the letters to the tiny owl, he sent him out the window, saying, "Enjoy yourself, Pig."

Soon afterward, the candle went out and Hermione expected herself to be sent back up through the Pensieve, though she was a little confused as to what he thought this memory was supposed to tell her.

Within moments, she had her answer—in the form of a groan coming from the bed. At first, she thought he might be hurt and ran to his bedside in concern, but the sound repeated itself, and she began to make out his expression in the darkness of the room. He seemed to be fine—happy, in fact—though his eyes were closed. A rustling sound came from under the covers and she saw a bump under the blanket moving rhythmically in the darkness.

_Oh my god_, she thought. He's not…

Hermione heard her name murmured quietly and felt her cheeks burning as a wave of shock and embarrassment washed over her. Not to mention a small triumphant prickle of pride—she'd never imagined that she was the kind of girl that boys thought about when they did…_that_, after all.

She covered up her eyes (partially, anyway) but the sounds were clear enough. She heard her name groaned out, then he turned to his side, and suddenly she found herself pulled out of the memory.

It took her a bit longer to catch her breath this time. She let her eyes wander around his garishly orange room and suddenly it occurred to her that he might have done (well, must have done, really) something similar in the very same bed she was sitting on.

She resisted the urge to pick up his pillow and bury her face in it, though she felt sure that it would smell just like him (certainly it would have helped with _her own_ future fantasies). Instead, she picked up the next bottle; a mustard-yellow one that still carried the lingering odor of some exotic spice.

Once inside the Pensieve, she was transported to the Great Hall—full nearly to bursting. She looked around, taking note of the Christmas decorations. _The Yule Ball, then_, she thought. It wasn't difficult to locate Ron, who was wearing his unfortunate dress robes and completely ignoring Padma, who had a pained expression on her face. Instead, Ron's eyes searched the crowd as if he was desperate to find someone.

The doors opened with a startling fanfare and the champions walked in. Any other girl might have jumped at the chance to see herself from another's perspective, dressed in her very best, but Hermione's eyes were only focused on Ron as 'Yule Ball Hermione' walked out with Viktor. His eyes grew bright with excitement when he saw his hero, but he only spared a passing glance at his escort. Of course, immediately afterward there was the expected 'double take.' What Hermione had _not_ expected was for all the colour to drain out of Ron's face like it did. She was actually concerned that he might pass out, which was more than she could say for Padma, who just took his arm, guiding him to their assigned table with more than a little exasperation.

Their table was filled with a mixture of Ravenclaw and Gryffindor students (one escorted by a Beaubaxtons student), and two Durmstrang students (escorts of Ravenclaws). All of them seemed to find plenty to talk about, and she heard her own name mentioned more than once.

All of them except Ron, that is, who stared gloomily at his plate, only looking up, and scowling, when he heard Hermione's name mentioned.

It only got worse when the dancing started. Ron's eyes never left 'Yule Ball Hermione's' twirling figure and his scowl grew more and more pronounced. Hermione was forced to follow him into the loo at one point, and she averted her eyes from the urinals, trailing Ron towards an empty stall. Just when she feared that she would have to watch him sit down to do his business, he punched the wooden side of the stall, cracking it with the force of his fist. He got a quizzical look from the only other occupant of the room, a vaguely familiar Slytherin, to which Ron responded by muttering, "piss off" under his breath.

Shortly after that, she was pulled back into Ron's bedroom again. She had certainly had her suspicions about his jealousy confirmed, but she never dreamed she'd been the cause of such visible suffering for Ron. _Is it wrong to take a little spiteful pleasure in that?_ she wondered, but then remembered her long months spent watching him snog Lavender Brown. She wouldn't wish that kind of pain on anybody.

It took a few moments to gather her thoughts together enough to pick up another bottle. This one was dark green and smelled of bitter herbs. The scene that greeted her as she entered the memory was one that sent a stab of pain to her chest and a wave of nausea to her stomach.

Ron was sitting on a sofa in the common room—well, actually he was _sprawled_ on a sofa in the common room, and _Lavender Sodding Brown_ was draped across him, attempting to eat his face (or so it seemed). In spite of this, Hermione noticed that Ron's eyes kept drifting to the nearby staircase and she wondered how Lavender wasn't noticing his distraction.

A few painful moments later, Hermione spotted herself walking down the stairs, dressed again in dark blue robes, though she hadn't bothered to tame her mad hair on that particular evening.

She turned back to Ron, who was staring openly—though Lavender was far too busy sucking on his neck to notice his lack of attention. Or perhaps she was under the impression he was thoroughly enjoying himself, because the hand that had casually cupped her shoulder was now gripping it firmly, almost to the point where it looked painful.

Hermione saw a movement in the corner of her eye, and turned to find Cormac McClaggan walking (or rather, _swaggering_) towards her 'Slughorn's Party' self. Hermione only gave him a passing glance; her eyes were all on Ron and what his reaction would be when McClaggan kissed her on the cheek, as she remembered he had done that night. Ron's ears reddened and he bent down quickly to kiss Lavender soundly on the lips. His eyes, however, still followed Hermione as she took McClaggan's arm and walked out the door (or rather, _flounced_, if she was going to be perfectly honest).

Some time after that, Ron managed to seriously annoy Lavender by announcing that he was tired and just wanted to go to bed. Hermione followed him up the staircase and into the sixth-year boys' room, where he picked up one of his Keeper's pads and threw it at the wall, hitting a very surprised and annoyed portrait of a sixteenth-century huntsman. Ron then climbed onto his bed and shut the curtains with a great deal more force than necessary. Shortly after that, Hermione was lifted from the memory. She might have liked to stay a little longer, to see what he did next, alone in his room, but she supposed that it must have been too private to share.

She moved on to the next bottle, a lavender-coloured bottle that must have contained rose water, judging by the scent. She was beginning to feel like a child at Christmas, gleefully shredding all the brightly coloured tissue paper to get on to the next toy.

In _this_ memory, she found herself standing behind Ron at the breakfast table in the Great Hall, where the 'other Hermione' was pleading with him to eat something. Ron's face had a tinge of green over it and his freckles seemed to stand out even more so in contrast. She looked around the cavernous room, taking note of the proliferation of 'Weasley Is Our King' badges at the Slytherin table. She turned back to Ron just in time to watch Luna Lovegood demonstrating her 'roaring lion' hat.

Ron and Harry left the table, and Hermione got to watch Ron's expression as her younger self gave him a kiss on the cheek. All the color came flooding back to his cheeks, and he touched his face in wonder as he and Harry walked away. Harry tried to talk to him, but Ron only responded absentmindedly, seeming to be in another world altogether.

Hermione (the older one) stopped short in the walkway, letting all the Quidditch spectators walk through her as she stood still, shocked. That impulsive gesture (meant to distract him from the badges) could not have been the first time she'd kissed Ron on the cheek, could it? She thought back to the time when she'd kissed Harry goodbye at the train station, the summer after fifth year. She'd been certain she had kissed both of them, but something in her head now whispered to her she had been mistaken.

She recalled all of the encouraging hugs that she had given Harry over the years, having been aware that affection was a precious thing to him. Had she never displayed that same affection to Ron, whom she loved more than she could bear sometimes? Something in her head insisted that every time she had an affectionate impulse toward Ron, she had stifled it, terrified he would discover the complexity of her feelings for him and mock her for it. It was at this moment that she was pulled back into Ron's bedroom, where she stared into the swirling silver surface for a long time.

Eventually, her curiosity got the better of her and she picked up another bottle, this one dark purple, with a pungent, unidentifiable smell coming off it.

The memory took her to a deserted corridor at Hogwarts, where she had to race to follow Harry and Ron, who appeared to be heading back towards the common room. They swept aside a curtain (one she recognized as hanging across one of their short cuts), only to be confronted by the unexpected sight of Ginny and Dean, snogging enthusiastically.

Hermione's first impulse was to watch Harry's reaction (which was certainly very interesting—so much so that she missed hearing most of Ron and Ginny's subsequent argument). Actually, she supposed she had learned to tune their fights out during most of her summers spent with the Weasleys.

The words, 'best kiss _he's_ ever got' managed to penetrate her consciousness, though, and she listened in horror as Ginny proceeded to list _Hermione and Viktor_ as some of those who'd got the chance to snog before Ron had. Hermione wanted to throttle Ginny. In fact, she was just on the verge of screaming (uselessly) at her when she caught sight of Ron's face.

_Ron_—who looked like he had just been told that Father Christmas, the Easter Bunny and Marvin the Mad Muggle were all make-believe. Ron—who seemed to have shrunk six inches and whose normally bright eyes seemed to have turned gray.

Hermione wanted to protest, 'You don't know! You don't understand—it meant nothing, really!' but knew it was useless to speak. And Harry (who was equally useless) didn't even have the good sense to lie to Ron when he asked him if Harry thought Ginny's revelation had been true.

She would have loved to follow Ron into his dorm, to see his reaction when finally alone, but apparently that, too, was too personal to share (even more personal than wanking, it seemed). And besides—she was all too painfully aware of the end result: weeks of unexplained coldness, of _venom_, even, while she wondered what she could have done wrong. And _then…Lavender Brown_. Because Lavender Brown had _never_ left him with any doubt about how she felt, had she?

Hermione sat on Ron's empty bed and wept silently, clenching her fists in frustration. The next time she saw Ginny Weasley…well, she'd do something that would make her pathetic little Bat-Bogey Hex want to crawl under a rock and whimper.

Hermione sighed and picked up the next bottle, which was pearl white and had an evergreen scent. This memory dropped her beside the fire in the common room, where Ron, Harry and a recent version of herself were busy with homework. Ron was furiously writing on a long parchment, complaining under his breath, and Hermione was scolding him, as usual. Suddenly, he realised that something was wrong with his quill and bemoaned the fact that he would have to do the entire essay again. Hermione saw her other self reach for the parchment and felt her own cheeks grow pink, for she knew precisely what was coming. Hermione's eyes locked on Ron's face—_this time_ she wanted to see _his_ reaction as he said it. She'd been beating herself up for months for not actually turning to him in response at the time.

"I'll fix it," her other self said with a sigh.

"I love you, Hermione," said Ron.

She saw his eyes widen in horror, and then he put his face in his hands, somehow managing to make it look as if it had only been said in exhausted gratitude. She watched as Harry looked away and her other self's cheeks turned pink.

_Stupid girl_, she wanted to scream. _Tell him you love him! Lavender Brown can go stuff herself!_

But, no—her 'other self' was cautious, and was actually feeling a little sorry for Lavender at that point.

Within seconds, Hermione was back on the bed again, and only one bottle was left in the box. One precious, final bottle, and she wondered how he had chosen to wrap up this enlightening trip through his memories. She hoped that it would be the best one yet, though logically she knew that the order in which she had viewed them was not necessarily the order in which he had set them up.

The bottle was clear and had no scent whatsoever. A random thought flashed through Hermione's brain: wouldn't it be funny if Molly had kept Veritaserum in this bottle, slipping into in her children's drinks when she was particularly concerned about them?

She knew she was stalling, almost dreading the end of the experience.

Finally she poured it in and took the plunge, finding herself at the Burrow, in the very same room she had left mere seconds before. Ron was there, and was just about to put on his robes—robes she was very familiar with.

_Bill's wedding_, she thought, and though she was tempted to look out the window for confirmation, she was not about to tear her eyes away from Ron's chest. Ron's bare, freckled, _not-half-as-skinny-as-it-used-to-be_ chest, to be precise. She felt a twinge of guilt at her voyeurism, but it occurred to her that he had _chosen_ to show this to her, hadn't he? And she had certainly got confirmation that he was not above staring avidly at her own chest, hadn't she?

She was so busy staring and thinking and resisting the useless impulse to reach out her hand to touch him that she almost missed the words coming from Harry, whom she hadn't even noticed in the room.

"So, are you gonna do it?"

Both she and 'Pensieve Ron' had apparently been startled out of their musings by the sound of Harry's voice, for they both whipped their heads toward him.

_Harry's not anywhere near as skinny as he used to be either_, Hermione thought, blushing a bit.

"Do what?" both Ron and Hermione said, though Harry only heard Ron, obviously.

"You know," Harry said with a hint of exasperation in his voice. "You said you were going to tell her today. You said it in front of all your brothers for crying out loud, and you know the twins won't let you bottle out."

"I did, didn't I?" Ron muttered.

"You know you did," Harry said, and reminded him, "You weren't _that_ drunk, anyway."

Ron sighed, buttoning up his robes. He stepped in front of the mirror and eyed his reflection dubiously. "Yeah," he said. "I'm gonna do it. I really don't want to wait until we're on the…_you know_."

Hermione's heart was beating madly with hope, even though she knew what the outcome of the day was going to be. What she wouldn't have paid for a chance to see a memory of an intoxicated Ron spilling his guts about her in front of all his brothers—but again, obviously _too_ personal.

She wanted to hear more about what he planned to do, but they just kept getting dressed in silence, and Hermione was probably not the first woman in history to want to curse men and their ridiculous reserve with each other. Actually, when she thought about it, the fact that Harry had brought it up at all was rather remarkable, and she chose to attribute it as him doing something thoughtful for _her_, his _other_ best friend.

Finally, Ron broke the silence (which would have been painfully long had it occurred in the girls' room, unless a book was involved). "Did you see Fleur's cousin?" he asked (with a grin that made Hermione want to punch him).

Harry grinned for a moment too, but his smile faltered almost immediately. His hand made a movement of dismissal, which certainly included Fleur's overdeveloped, under-intelligent cousin, but might possibly have been dismissing a few other things, too.

Remarkably (at least to Hermione's eyes) Ron seemed to pick up on it. "You gonna talk to Ginny, then?"

Harry looked up, startled, but then a determined look crossed his face. "I already said what I needed to say, didn't I?"

Ron snorted, possibly in disgust, and bent down to lace his shoes. They finished dressing in silence, and even Hermione (who'd given up her hair long ago as a lost cause) was shocked at how little time they both took combing their hair. Soon afterward, they made their way to the back garden, stopping to steal a little food from the kitchen when Mrs. Weasley's back was turned.

Hermione, of course, had a general idea of what was going to happen next. At the time, she had been bursting with curiosity to see Harry's reaction to Ginny in the surprisingly flattering bridesmaid's dress Fleur had chosen for her; therefore she had totally missed Ron's reaction to _herself_. Hermione hadn't taken nearly as much time getting ready for this event as she had for the Yule Ball, but she had to admit that her new dress robes fit her well, and her figure had certainly changed a bit since she was fourteen.

Her more recent self turned to Ron, who had finally spotted 'Bill's Wedding Hermione' through the crowd, and his reaction was everything she could have hoped for. His eyes were huge and he had that adorable lop-sided grin on his face, and he completely ignored the wizened old man who was trying to talk to him (a relative, probably) in order to stride toward her determinedly. His face was so open, so _hopeful_, that she felt tears prickle in the back of her eyes.

Unfortunately, Viktor, who had also spotted her in the crowd and was walking toward her, beat him to the punch. Viktor's legs were shorter, but he had been a lot closer, and Ron found himself halted, mid-stride, by the sight of 'Bill's Wedding Hermione' and 'Viktor Bloody Krum' embracing like the long-lost friends they were.

'Pensieve Hermione' saw the look on Ron's face and wanted to hug him herself. At first he looked like a little boy whose dog just got hit by a lorry, and then he just looked angry. She saw the colour rising in his face as he stood there, clenching his teeth, stuffing his fists in his pockets. He turned away for a moment, and unfortunately, the next person (or persons) to approach him were the twins, who each put a brotherly arm around him.

"Uh-oh, that can't be good," said Fred.

"Missed the train again, have you?" asked George slyly.

"Bugger off," muttered Ron, shaking off their arms. With a heavy sigh, he began to walk off in the opposite direction, shoulders slumped. Hermione watched as the twins seemed to communicate without words, apparently trying to determine whether to go after him or let him be.

They needn't have worried, though, as Hermione well knew. Ron turned suddenly, striding purposefully toward her other self. He approached her as she was attempting to catch up with Viktor, whom she had stopped corresponding with nearly a year before. He barely had time to catch the words, "I haff signed with the Dragons," coming from Viktor's mouth when Ron said, "I need to talk to you, Hermione," taking her hand and tugging forcefully.

She heard her other self sputter at Ron's rudeness, but noticed that Viktor only smiled gently in response, seeming to understand Ron's behaviour. She watched as Ron dragged her away, out of hearing range of Viktor but still in the full view of the entire assembly.

Hermione got to hear herself berating him, calling him rude, insufferable, and any number of things, all the while failing to notice that he was trying to tell her something—trying desperately to get her to stop talking long enough to listen to him. Looking at it from this direction, Ron telling her to "Shut up" seemed a bit more forgivable than it had at the time. And somehow, the idea of him taking her face in his hands, kissing her soundly, made almost perfect sense.

What didn't make sense was her own reaction—or rather, the reaction of her 'earlier self,' who sputtered wordlessly and walked back into the house in a huff.

Hermione (the older, wiser one) now got to witness what Ron had to put up with afterwards: the good-natured ribbing from Charlie, the evil cackling laughter of the twins, Harry's embarrassed grin, Ginny's gigantic hug, and Mrs. Weasley's half-hearted scolding (with tears in her eyes).

Just then, the memory ended and Hermione sat on the bed, calling forward her own memories of the rest of the evening.

She had blown her chance to sit with the family during the ceremony, choosing instead to hover in the back row, red-faced. She had missed the chance to dance with Ron (though the odds were he wouldn't have danced at all, given his past history, but somehow, she suspected he would have if she had asked.)

In fact, after the time she had spent wandering in Ron's memories, she suspected that there was an awful lot he might do for her, given the smallest bit of encouragement. She also suspected that she had wasted a great deal of time in not really _seeing_ him, though she had always thought that she understood him better than anybody else.

But how to respond to this unexpected and priceless gift that he had given her today—that was the question. She came to a decision quickly, grabbing the same clear (now empty) bottle and picking up her wand. And even though she had never cast that particular spell before, she was fairly certain that she could do it. As soon as she finished, she jumped up, practically leaping through the door and out into the hallway, where she nearly knocked Ron over in her haste to find him.

"Oh," she said, at a loss for words. "Er…they're all in the Pensieve—you can take them back now."

Ron looked at her quizzically. Clearly, this was the _last_ reaction he had expected from her after such a gift.

"Oh!" she cried. "I almost forgot! _This_ is for you."

She thrust the clear bottle into his hands, standing on her tiptoe to kiss his cheek. He stared at her with his mouth open, but had the presence of mind to go into the room, clutching the bottle in his hands and shutting the door behind him.

Hermione decided to make her way back to her favourite tree. Although she wasn't exactly waiting for him, she didn't have the nerve to be in the house while he was experiencing that particular memory. Thankfully, though, she didn't have to sit here and relive it while waiting for him as it was in the room with him and impossible to call to her own mind.

As she had the day before, she lay back against the cool grass, staring up at the sky—this time thinking how drastically things could change in a day. Once again, she imagined him lying above her under this tree, kissing her neck, his hands covering her breasts, his body pressing her into the ground. But this time, the fantasy (or hope) had a better chance of actually happening in reality, and _sooner_, rather than later. If anybody could see her face, she suspected, they might remark that she looked like the cat who was about to get the cream.

She opened her eyes a few moments later only to find Ron sitting next to her, his arms folded over his knees, looking at down at her in wonder. _Who would guess that Ron Weasley has it in him to be stealthy?_ she mused. She sat up, never taking her eyes off his.

"I didn't know," he said. "I mean, deep down, I thought I knew but I wasn't sure. It's too bad I was unconscious when you said it."

"We could've saved a lot of time," she agreed.

"I would've chucked Lavender a lot faster, that's for sure." He laughed, shaking his head, possibly at himself, possibly at her. "For the record, though—I'm sorry, too, Hermione. If I hadn't been such a…_git_ before that, you wouldn't have had to wait to say all that when I was unconscious."

"No," she protested. "I should have said it sooner. Perhaps not _all_ of it, but I never really made it clear to you how I felt, though I thought I had. Thank you—so much—for showing me…those things, Ron."

He waved his hand in dismissal and pointed at his head. "Glad to have them back, actually. If Fred and George got a hold of them..." His ears reddened and he looked down at the ground in front of him.

"If you could've seen their faces when you were poisoned… They were really worried," she said in their defense.

Ron smiled. "Yeah, but _they_ didn't sneak into the hospital wing in the middle of the night to hold my hand, did they?"

She could feel her cheeks reddening, and teased, "Well, it seems I'm not the _only_ one who made a habit of doing that—"

"Yeah, but _I_ had the Invisibility Cloak, at least." He reached out to touch her hand, lowering his voice. "I'm really sorry that I embarrassed you at the wedding…"

"No—" she interrupted. "It wasn't that, not really. It was...it _seemed_ to be about you and Viktor and not about _us_. _That_ was why I was angry. You have to know, don't you Ron? You know I never felt anything for Viktor like what I felt for you. It was flattering, that's all."

"I think I know that. I think maybe I always knew, deep down. It's just…I mean, so he noticed you, way back then, and he obviously thought you were pretty. And maybe he thought you were smart, too, or he liked how you didn't giggle at him like the other girls. But I've _always_ known you were pretty, and I know better than anyone how clever you are, and, well—if you'd been a giggler I don't think I would have hung around with you all these years. Three months with Lavender was bad enough, wasn't it? It's just that all those things are _obvious_. He couldn't possibly have known all those years ago how brave you are, and how…determined, and how you always manage to get me and Harry sorted out...how you make us see things that aren't easy to see, and how you help people and house-elves even when they don't want to be helped and…"

He stopped suddenly. "He couldn't possibly see you the way that I do."

"I know that, Ron," she said, feeling a lump in her throat.

"But I saw him hugging you and it all came back—just when I was ready to tell you everything, and he's a famous Quidditch player and I'm…"

Hermione wanted to stomp her foot. "Ron Weasley, did it ever occur to you that I really don't care all that much about Quidditch?"

"But you said—to Parvati—that you _only_ liked…"

"I was trying to make you jealous, you prat!" she said, reaching for his hand. "I only care about Quidditch when it comes to _you_. And Harry, of course, and Ginny too, though after what she did…"

Ron smiled adorably, but his face grew serious quickly after that. "I guess what I was afraid of is…well, you've been writing to him for a while, and perhaps now he _knows_ all those things about you, and he was just waiting until you got older, and…"

He stopped, swallowing visibly. "Well, actually, it's sort of like what that Heathcliff bloke said-"

He dug into his back pocket for a moment, finally pulling out a crumpled piece of parchment and reading directly off of it: " 'If he loved you with all the power of his soul for a whole lifetime, he couldn't love you as much as I do in a single day.' It was the only sane thing the idiot said through most of the book anyway. "

_Once again_, she thought, _Ron Weasley has managed to utterly destroy me_. Hermione's eyes flooded with tears and she choked back a sob, covering her eyes with her hands.

Ron responded immediately. Kneeling in front of her, he reached out to pull her hands away, bending lower to kiss her forehead, to kiss her tear-stained cheeks. Finally, _finally_ he kissed her mouth—the perfect kiss that she had dreamed about for nearly four years; a kiss full of love and promise and countless years of yearning.

Hermione felt as though her heart would burst from her chest. The love she felt for this person had always been a double-edged sword to her. While it had made her happy much of the time, knowing she saw beauty in him that no one else saw, at the same time it was always tainted by the fear that she was hopeless, that he didn't see her the way she saw him.

Now, suddenly, these feelings (which she had sometimes felt she carried like a lead weight in her stomach) felt more like a hot air balloon blowing up inside her, threatening to send her soaring up into the sky. It was thrilling and terrifying at the same time. The only thing to do was to cling to Ron, hoping that his physical presence would keep her on earth.

She had waited for this for so long that she hardly wanted to stop and breathe, let alone think rationally. Before she knew it, she had lain back against the grass, pulling him down with her, using more force that she'd ever imagined she had in her. And (wouldn't you know it) Ron was kissing her neck, and his hands were covering her breasts, and it felt—lord help her—it felt a million times better than even her most vivid fantasy had. His body pressed hers into the ground, connecting at just the right spot, sending a charge through her body that went beyond any magic she'd felt before.

Hermione had always heard that people did things, ridiculously impulsive things, under the influence of desire, but she never thought that (apart from falling in love with the most maddening young man on earth) it would happen to her. Suddenly, though, what she wanted more than anything was to feel Ron's skin against hers, to have him deep inside her, to have nothing left between them. It didn't matter that they were in full view of the Burrow and that Ron's mum could come back at any moment.

It seemed stupid to wait after so long, and this afternoon they had been (essentially) emotionally naked in front of each other. _What's the point of holding back?_ she thought. Ron seemed to be of the same mind because his hand had crept under her blouse, his fingers exploring the sensitive skin of her midriff, slipping tentatively under the edges of her bra, sending currents of excitement up and down her body.

However, when she moved one of her hands down to his trouser buttons, he halted her with his own hand, making that same sexy groan she'd heard in the Pensieve.

"Wait," he said. "Let me catch my breath."

"We haven't got much time," she protested.

Ron sat up, breathing heavily. "I know. Which is kind of the point, I reckon. I don't want to rush into things, at least not something as important as this."

Just as she was about to curse him for his uncharacteristic caution, he went on, "You always did know how to make me go a bit mad, Hermione, and Merlin knows it wouldn't take much to convince me to change my mind. I just…well, I don't relish the idea of Mum coming home and spoiling the whole thing, among other things. Anyway, I don't want to rush. I've already mucked up our first kiss; I want to try to make our first shag a bit more special."

Hermione, her head finally clearing from its lust-filled fog and her pulse slowing down, began to see his point. His next words, however, sent her heart reeling again.

"We've got the rest of our lives, haven't we?"

She couldn't help herself; she pounced on the man, kissing every bit of his face she could reach. "I love you."

"Yeah," he said, grinning. "I sort of worked that out."

For that, he earned a half-hearted smack on the shoulder and a much more sincere kiss on the cheek.

He stood up, pulling her up to her feet with him. "Come, on, let's get inside. It's the perfect time to look around the house for things we could use on the…when we go, I mean."

"Ron Weasley, are you being…_responsible_?"

"Just trying to see things your way," he said, taking her hand as they walked.

Hermione did her best to keep up with him, all the while thinking seriously about what they might need on their journey—not just for the stated purpose of the journey, but in order to survive, both physically and mentally. "Perhaps I ought to bring another novel for you to read—one you might like better. We'll likely find ourselves with lots of time to kill when we're not out…looking, and reading really helps get your mind off your worries."

He turned to her, grinning. "I can think of a _much_ better way to kill time _and_ get your mind off your worries than reading."

"Yes, I'll bet you can," she laughed. "But what'll we do when Harry's around?"

"Good point," he said. "All right, then, find me a bloody book—but try to find something where the hero isn't such a mope, all right?"

"That leaves out _Jane Eyre_," she said, almost to herself. "And I don't think you'd really like Jane Austen. Oh, I know! I'll get you _The Count of Monte Cristo_, and I think you might like the Tolkien books, and _Treasure Island_, and _The Last of the Mohicans_, and…"

"Haven't you got any that are about Quidditch?" he muttered.

"Ron Weasley, hasn't anyone ever told you there's more to life than Quidditch? I mean, _really_!"

He stopped her rant with a kiss, enfolding her in his long arms as they stood in front of the Burrow's back door. "Reckon I've finally found a good way to shut you up…"

And really, who was she to argue?

**Fin**

_A/N: Grateful thanks go to Shiiki and ModestyRabnott for their generous beta assistance._


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